Misunderstandings
by oldmule
Summary: Set during mid S9 amidst the angst of Ruth's rejection
1. Chapter 1

Angst ridden for the moment. But hey, you know them!

* * *

She watched him from across the grid as he walked heavily towards the glass decanter and began to pour. She glanced at her watch, it wasn't even noon.

A moment later as he turned, his door slid open.

"You're feeling sorry for yourself."

It wasn't a question, though he considered several answers. The only one he gave was to swill all the liquid from the glass.

She sighed quietly closing the door.

He turned back for a refill.

"What happened to 'we move on from this', Harry?"

"We have moved on, Ruth. Life has an uncanny knack of moving on regardless of all that we lose."

"Nothing's lost," she said with restrained exasperation.

But she knew something was.

He stared at her with cool eyes and once more raised the glass and consumed its contents.

"Harry, please…"

"It's fine Ruth, you said what you said. That's all. That's it. There is no problem."

He put the glass down, her eyes following it with relief.

"Now please leave me alone."

Her eyes flicked up to him. Unsure. Surprised at the tone.

"I have things to do," he added quietly.

At the door she glanced back. He had returned to the decanter.

"That's not going to help," she said.

"And you would know would you, Ruth?"

He poured a measure larger than those that had gone before. He wanted more.

But not of her.

How could you lose a relationship that you didn't have? How could you need something you claimed you didn't want?

But he made her angry. This belligerent childishness made her angry. Telling her to leave him alone made her angry. Wallowing like this made her angry.

At least when she was angry she didn't need to unpick why she'd said no.

As she got to her desk she heard the pod doors close behind her. She knew without looking that he had gone.

An hour later she threw a file onto his desk. It slid off the other side taking a sheaf of papers and folders with it. God, he really did make her angry. Cursing she bent to pick them up and shuffle them back into some kind of pile, placing the table top diary alongside them. She opened it to the day, unsure if that was how she had found it. There was only one thing written besides today's date. _Funeral._

The anger was suddenly gone. She had made this all about her. It wasn't.

As she stood pondering her earlier words and her misjudgements of him she was startled by the phone ringing.

"Hello, Harry P…" began Ruth.

"Is he there?"

"No. Who's ca…."

"Where is he?" the insistent voice broke in again. There was something urgent yet slightly familiar about it.

"I believe he's at a funeral. Can I help you with …"

Ruth tailed off, abandoning the question, before the words were formed. On the other end of the phone she had heard one more muffled utterance before the line went dead.

"…Dad, you're late."


	2. Chapter 2

**Small update due to long day at work!**

* * *

It didn't take her long.

She stared at the screen. At the name. At the name that was no more.

Graham Townsend.

She should have known it would be his mother's surname.

Would he have told her, she wondered, would Harry have told her if they were back in the place they used to be? If she hadn't turned him away? Would he tell her yet?

And she berated herself once more. It wasn't about her. It wasn't about her shared confidences with him, or lack of them.

It was about Harry.

About a man who had lost his son.

About a man who had no one.

Harry stood in the church.

All he ever did was stand in churches burying people.

His people.

This time, though it was his flesh and blood.

He sat towards the back, alone. Catherine would have had him near, but not Jane. Jane didn't want him close. She blamed him. She always had.

To bury your first born was inconceivable.

To bury your child, heartbreaking.

But to bury your son, with whom you could never reconcile, that was truly devastating.

He wanted to cry, but he did not.

He wanted to scream, but he did not.

He wanted to cling to another human being and let out all the sorrow he had ever known; all the guilt and blame he had ever felt.

But he had no one.

And so he dug his nails into his palms, until the skin was taut and threatened to tear.

In a dome supposedly filled with healing, forgiveness and divine hope of the eternal, never had a man felt so very alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for all lovely reviews.**

* * *

Harry Pearce knew work, he knew Five, he knew service.

And so two hours after he walked from the grid, he stepped back through the pod doors.

Dimitri had a question for him, he answered it. Beth required an authorisation, he gave it. The Home Secretary demanded a meeting, he attended it.

Amidst the comings and goings, Ruth watched.

She wondered how none but her seemed to have noticed the hollowness of his eyes, the frown stamped upon his brow, or the weight that bowed his shoulders. She wondered how a man could bury his son and return to work.

But then where else did Harry Pearce have to go?

After three hours, by some osmotic process that was instinctively theirs, she knew that he had gone up to the roof.

She said nothing as she moved forward and leant beside him in the cool autumnal breeze.

His eyes never left the horizon. Neither spoke.

A gull swept by. A siren blazed across the city. A cloud edged hesitantly in front of the sun.

"Have you finished the Syrian reports?" he asked suddenly.

"I didn't think you wanted them today?"

He didn't answer.

"If you need them you'll have them," she added.

"Good."

They gazed out a moment longer and then he turned away, back inside.

"Harry…"

But he didn't stop. The door closed.

Not even here, in their space, was he going to let her in.

* * *

Harry poured himself another large drink and gazed across his lifeless living room. The measure was too much, he knew that, but hell what did it really matter. He needed it.

He hadn't eaten for most of the day and the whiskey had already gone to his head. He didn't feel drunk, a little thick headed perhaps, but not drunk.

Not yet.

The doorbell rang and for a long moment he considered ignoring it.

He did ignore it but it kept on ringing. With a grimace he wearily got up, annoyed at the disturbance.

"The Syrian file," said Ruth, standing on the doorstep, proffering a folder.

Harry just stared at her.

"You said you wanted it today."

Slowly his hand reached forward and unenthusiastically took it.

"Tomorrow would have been fine, Ruth."

"Well, you said today," she repeated, looking slightly put out.

"Thanks," said Harry who had still not moved from the door, guarding himself and his home from intrusion.

"Did you drive over here just to give me this?" he asked.

"No, I got the bus."

"Right," he nodded.

"Okay then," she pointed vaguely over her shoulder and then moved away. The door had already partially closed when she turned back,

"Harry, I'm sorry…but would you mind if I came in for just a few minutes while the next bus comes?"

He hesitated.

"I wouldn't ask, only it's about to absolutely pour down."

She noticed the sigh he tried to withhold.

"Of course," he said, stepping to one side, wishing she had just left him to himself.

She crossed the threshold, her hand curling around the car keys buried deep in her pocket.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked, following her into the living room.

"Tea, please," she smiled.

He disappeared off with a nod.

Ruth looked around the room.

A bottle, a glass and a large measure. It had been seven days since Graham had died and she felt pretty certain that this room had probably witnessed seven long nights of large measures in that time.

She stepped towards the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, I really didn't want to be any trouble," she said, standing in the doorway.

"It's the least I can do," it was a tone that she knew was far from heartfelt. He didn't want her here. She knew that. But she suspected that what he wanted and needed were not actually the same thing. She would bet what money she had that he had failed to talk about this to anyone, that he had wrapped up his feelings in the bottle and corked them. For a moment she doubted her actions and wondered if she could truly help him.

He handed her a mug of tea.

"You not having some?" she asked innocently.

"I've only just had one," he lied.

"Right," she nodded and turned back to the living room, following him.

For several minutes she chattered on about work related matters, threats and intel. He showed more interest in them than in small talk, as he stood by the window occasionally gazing out as though eager for the need for escape.

"I put some extra information in the file about the Turkish Syrian links. It appears they are more prevalent than we thought."

"Right," he replied absentmindedly.

"There's a group working out of Cyprus," she paused, "funnily enough not far from where I used to live."

Harry looked at her, it was rare for her to talk of that time and for a moment it pulled him out of the place he was.

She looked a little embarrassed, "well, actually the next village. Nico used to go to school there," she added after a beat.

The silence rang heavy between them.

"It was a sweet place. Looked like it had been there forever, in fact the roof on one of the classrooms had holes you could see the sky through…" she smiled warmly, "Good job it didn't rain too often."

Catching her eye he half smiled but then his gaze returned to the window.

"I could never get him there on time. Every morning it was a mad scramble even though I set the alarm to go off earlier and earlier we inevitably got there late. There was always some game to play…" she smiled at the reminiscence, "…some toy to rescue…" her eyes were fixed on Harry's back, "…some shoe that had been lost."

Ruth laughed.

"I mean, how hard can it be to get a seven year old to school?"

Her laughter slowly died away.

Several silent moments passed.

She put the cup down noisily on the coffee table.

"Well, I best get off for the bus."

He said nothing.

"Thanks for the tea and I'm sorry I've been prattling on."

"It's fine," came the clipped reply .

"Right well, I'll see myself out."

He nodded, only half turned towards her.

"See you tomorrow, Ruth."

"Bye Harry."

He heard her walk towards the hall and the door open. He did not turn as it banged closed.

He did not wipe the first tears from his face, he let them run down his cheeks as he felt the air catching in his lungs and the muscles of his throat clenching closed. As the emotion began to overwhelm him, a single sob burst from his chest.

That was when he felt the warm hand upon his back.

And knew she had not gone.


	4. Chapter 4

At once she felt him stifle the sob. Felt the tension in his back as he froze.

He did not move away, neither did he turn.

And Ruth feared, in touching him, that she had too soon stopped the thing she herself had prompted.

But then his ribs rose and fell as he sucked deep, uneven, controlling breaths into his lungs, fighting to regain himself.

"Mickey…" he said quietly,"…he had a yellow monkey called Mickey…"

And the hand at his back was still there, comforting, reassuring.

"Hardly yellow in the end…no kind of colour really. If he didn't have him you couldn't go anywhere…from some street market in Prague or Munich…can't remember…bought in a hurry before I flew back home."

He swallowed down hard, trying not to let go.

"Often wished I'd not bothered, made us more late than …wouldn't get in the car without it... used to have to stick it in the washer overnight…tell him it'd been swimming for bananas."

Half laugh, half sob.

"Tried to get him to nursery once ...it'd got lost…wouldn't get in the car. I told him Mickey would see us there…and he said…"

His words faltering, struggling to come out.

"…he said…Mickey doesn't have pockets, so he can't have got there because he's got no money for the bus ….and

Fighting not to finally and totally fall apart at the memory of his indignant, bright eyed little boy.

"….and there aren't enough trees on that road for him to swing on…"

Her hand felt it first.

The tremor.

And then the eruption of silent wracking sobs that went through every fibre of the strong, bereft man before her.

So the hand insisted, pulling at his shoulder, telling him to come to her.

Finally he turned from the window, head bent, eyes squeezed shut.

And when they opened he swimmingly saw her face for a moment before she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close and let him break his heart against her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Again thanks for the multitude of reviews. A short chapter, as today has been a very long day!**

* * *

She had no idea how long she held him.

Until the tears ran out.

Until he emerged from a sea of hurt.

A drowning man suddenly conscious and aware.

She felt his arms loosen around her.

_He_ felt the intense embarrassment of having fallen apart in the embrace of a woman who wanted to remain only his employee.

A rough palm swatted away the tears as he disentangled himself from her.

"Sorry," he murmured.

She said nothing as he moved to the safety of the decanter and refilled his glass with a larger measure than before.

"You didn't come here for this," he said, eyes hidden and withdrawn from her.

She smiled a sad smile he couldn't see.

"How did he die, Harry?" she asked gently, knowing the answer, as she often did.

"An overdose…" he swilled the whiskey in mesmeric circles, "accidental… they think."

He raised the glass to his lips, but paused.

"I suppose we'll never know,"

"When did you last speak to him?" she asked, resisting the urge to tell him to stop drinking.

Harry lowered himself heavily onto the sofa.

"Nineteen ninety nine."

Shocked, she remained silent.

For the first time since he had broken down he glanced at her.

"See. I'm hardly worthy of your sympathy, Ruth. What kind of father doesn't see his son for twelve years?"

"I'm sure neither of you were perfect, Harry."

He laughed a cold, ironic laugh.

She perched on the back of the armchair behind her and let the moment hang.

It remained hanging for a considerable time.

"I'm fine now," he announced suddenly. "Thank you for bringing the intel and I'm … I'm sorry you had to see that."

Ruth got up.

"You didn't look in the file, did you?" she asked softly.

"Should I have?"

"No. It's full of rubbish."

He looked up at her in surprise. She smiled, unexpectedly sitting down next to him.

"You needed a friend, Harry."

"I don't usually cry in the arms of colleagues, Ruth."

"I don't believe I said colleague?"

"No…" he hesitated "…you said friend."

"You would at least grant me that?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

He didn't answer, contemplating the liquid comfort before him.

Her hand reached out, lightly touching the arm that had just raised the glass back to his lips.

"Please, Harry…."

His response was challenging but the restraint in her fingers remained.

The glass was returned to the table.

"You should go," he said, "you'll miss the bus."

"I'm in the car," she answered simply and smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

"You brought me an irrelevant file and lied about the bus in order to get in here?"

She nodded calmly, "Born spook, Harry."

He smiled the first small smile she had seen in what felt like a very long time.

"Have you talked to anyone?" she asked.

The smile disappeared.

"Are you suggesting I see a councillor, Ruth?"

"You? Go to Tring?"

It was her turn to smile and raise an eyebrow.

He reached for the glass on the table but half way there he withdrew his hand.

"You can't bottle it all up, Harry."

He looked at her pointedly.

"You did."

His words surprised her.

"Then I don't recommend it," she advised after a moment.

"What do you suggest, Ruth? I lie down and bare my soul, because believe me we'll be here a hell of a long time."

"Tell me how you feel?' she persisted.

"Fine. Better."

He wasn't going to get off that easily.

"Harry, please," she said firmly.

"What? What do you want?" he snapped. "How do I feel that I'm still here? That I've survived and he hasn't?"

His hand shot to the glass and this time she made no attempt to stop him. Nor he himself.

He angrily took a slug.

"I shouldn't' be here, Ruth, and my boy not."

She remained quiet now, letting him work the thought, letting the anger fade and the emotion return.

He cradled the glass.

She waited.

"I wanted so much for him, hoped for so much… expected so much. Too much. By the time I learned to stop expecting and simply wanted him to be happy, wanted no more than that, then it was too late. He was already gone and I'd already lost him."

This time he took only a sip.

"I should have supported him. Should have done more…could have done more. Maybe if I'd been there things would be different. How will I ever know? I can never make it up to him… Never make it right."

He stared into the remains of the glass.

"I'll never have a son again. That's what I've done. That's how I feel, Ruth…. he was my boy. My bright eyed boy."

Ruth let the prickle of tears in her eyes subside and waited until she was able to speak without the tremor in her voice. When she did, she spoke softly.

"However much you loved him, you couldn't make his decisions for him. He made those, Harry. Not you. His choices. You couldn't live his life for him."

"I could have made it easier, Ruth."

She had read the reports.

"You could have got him off a drug's charge?"

"Yes."

"Would it have stopped him?"

"I don't know."

"No, you don't.

"But I could have helped."

"You couldn't protect him against himself."

He shook his head wearily.

"I should have tried."

"And you probably would have failed."

"But at least I would have tried."

"Did Jane try? Did Catherine?"

Her question stopped him in his thoughts.

He nodded slowly.

"Then maybe he didn't want protecting."

He sighed.

Her hand moved softly to his arm.

"It's not your fault. And it's not your fault that you're here when others aren't."

"That doesn't make it right, Ruth."

"What's not right is that those of us who are left alive, spend our time refusing to live."

His eyes drifted up to her.

"That's very enigmatic," he said, eyebrow raised.

"No. It's very basic. If you'd nipped down to Tring now and then you'd know it's right up there in the manual."

He smiled a lopsided smile. And then laughed.

"What?" she asked.

"Was that _you_ just suggesting that I learned to live a little, Ruth?"

"Inappropriate I know," she smiled, "But yes, Harry. You need to learn to live a little."


	7. Chapter 7

"So if you're the expert, tell me, how do I start living a little, Ruth? What should I do? Go clubbing? Travelling? Getting drunk?"

Her eyes flicked to the glass.

"That I think you can do well enough!"

He smiled a beguiling smile.

"Then I'm half way there."

"You're nowhere near, Harry."

"No. Perhaps not."

"The only place you are, is in no-man's land. You feel guilt that you survived and so you avoid the chance to enjoy the life you have."

"What's to enjoy Ruth? _When_ is there to enjoy it? How do you shrug off death after death and just carry on?"

"You tell me, you've managed it for twenty years."

He sighed deeply.

"You bury yourself deeper," he admitted slowly.

"So deep you lose yourself perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"Where have we gone Harry? Where have the two of us who talked of life and travel, who dared to dream of Paris and Rome…where have we gone?"

He wondered if that Harry still existed any more, or if he was lost, buried beneath the bodies.

He looked at her, knowing that the Ruth who would have blushed at the mere recollection of Paris and Rome seemed almost certainly lost to him.

"How do you feel now?" she asked after several moments.

"Tired," he answered, rubbing his eyes.

"How tired?"

"Weary."

"Have you eaten? No, of course you haven't eaten..." she answered, before even giving him a chance for the lie. "So let's go eat."

"Now?"

"Yes now. Unless you're waiting till breakfast?"

The quirk of his eyebrow flustered her slightly.

"Come on," she ploughed on, standing up suddenly, "I'm hungry and so are you."

"Is this learning to live a little, Ruth?" He said dragging himself somewhat reluctantly from the sofa.

"No this is called basic eating Harry ...just in a restaurant instead of dragging a tin of beans out of the cupboard."

He obediently followed her towards the hall and closed the front door behind him.

* * *

They sat, somewhat uneasy, somewhat quiet, waiting for their food to arrive. They'd gone to a pub within walking distance with a good restaurant that Harry had eaten in before. An old building with a contemporary yet still cosy interior. He didn't however feel very cosy.

"I'm sorry, I'm not the best of company," he muttered.

"I wasn't expecting you to be the scintillating raconteur, Harry. Not tonight."

"Not sure I've ever been that."

"I expect you've had your moments," she said.

His smile was not too convincing.

"Listen…" she said as her fingers slid towards his hand on the table. He was sure he could feel them even though he could see they weren't quite touching.

"…this is about you getting some food inside you and making sure you don't lose yourself in a bottle of whiskey between four walls and a thousand regrets."

"Only a thousand?" he replied, smiling sadly.

"I'm here Harry, if you want to talk about Graham…whatever…I just want to help."

"Who listened to you, Ruth?"

She looked at him with puzzlement.

"Who helped you when George died? When Nico was taken away?"

"You did."

Now it was his turn to appear puzzled.

"You gave me my job back so that I could bury my head in the sand and work till I was too tired to think or feel. Sound familiar?"

"Then, perhaps I shouldn't have persuaded you to come back?"

"Maybe if you hadn't tried I would have come back anyway."

"Why?"

"We're like magnets Harry?"

He tilted his head questioningly.

"We keep being drawn back together."

"Or repelled apart," he replied quietly.

She looked at him intently.

"Goat's cheese and smoked salmon."

With impeccable timing the waitress had arrived.


	8. Chapter 8

**I'd just like to say damn you all! I've got so much work to do and then you send in appreciative, often lyrical reviews and I find myself impelled to write another update and not get anything else done! **

* * *

"Thank you."

He looked at her with a gentleness and sincerity that caught her by surprise.

"And my liver thanks you."

She laughed.

For a moment he hesitated, his face growing serious once more, as he pushed his dessert spoon around the empty plate.

"Ruth. I'm sorry for the way I've been behaving."

She opened her mouth to speak but didn't get the chance.

"I don't mean this last week …but in the time before. I acted poorly, childishly and I am sorry."

He kept watching her as he said it. He couldn't…wouldn't…mention the question in the churchyard. He knew he didn't need to.

"Forgiven?" he asked.

She shook her head.

A cloud shadowed his face.

"I don't believe you need forgiving, Harry."

"But I was boorish and irritable."

She raised her eyebrows.

"So probably no change there, then?" he smiled.

She laughed once more.

And there was something healing and soothing in her laugh. If he could he would carry it around with him to lighten the darkness that often consumed him.

"It's not all that bad is it, Ruth?" he said lightly, leaning back in his chair.

"What's that?"

"Living a little."

She smiled, "Better than a tin of beans."

"Then maybe we should do it again sometime," and the words were out of his mouth before he'd even thought about it.

"Harry, I –"

"If you want to, of course. Just a thought."

She didn't answer and he wondered if he had gone too far.

"I understand Ruth. I'm not asking for anything. I know what you said. I understand you don't want..."

"You have no idea what I want, Harry."

The frustration in her tone surprised him. She took a deep breath.

"I don't know it myself."

"Well you've been pretty sage so far this evening. Maybe you should listen to your own wise words."

She looked up at him, "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap."

"Tell me Ruth, does living a little mean apologising a lot? Because that's what we appear to be doing."

"Can we talk about something else?" she suggested with a half smile.

"Return to everyone dying around me and my inadequacies?"

"Yes, we should stick to your inadequacies, they should keep us going for a good while," the smile was returning.

"Glad to be of service."

And so their gentle banter continued, now keeping clear of more delicate subjects, whilst all the while Ruth's considerable thought processes began to unpick the one line that wouldn't leave her alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Done work! Done new chapter! Hope it's up to par?**

* * *

"Coffee?" asked the waitress glancing first to Ruth.

"Yes, could I have –"

"Would you give us a minute, please?" Harry interrupted.

Ruth turned to him as the waitress smiled and wandered away.

"Sorry," he said, not for the first time that evening, "But would you...would you like to come back to mine for coffee?"

It was with considerably less surety and authority that he asked, than he usually displayed on the grid.

"Just coffee. I do just mean coffee. Nothing else….," he blustered, "well…unless you'd like a biscuit. I think I have some that haven't gone soft."

She glanced at his stomach.

"I'm surprised they ever get the chance to go soft, Harry."

She smiled and he felt the tension that had landed back on his shoulders suddenly dissipate.

"They don't. To be honest I'd forgotten they were there."

They both smiled at each other for a moment more before he felt the need to explain further.

"It's just if I go back alone...tonight…you know. Four walls. Bottle. Dark thoughts."

She knew very well.

She knew the long silent nights at home when the weight of their world began to press down without the the injection of adrenalin that usually kept it at bay.

The early hours when every doubt, every regret, every single moment of guilt would surround you in the dark and make the gloom a suffocating, unbearably lonely place to be.

That was bad enough without being haunted by the death of your only son.

"I'd rather not," she said quickly.

"That's fine," he raised his arm, hiding the disappointment, summoning the waitress who was hovering close by.

"Can we have-"

"The bill please."

"Of course," said the waitress, turning away.

He quizzically glanced at Ruth as she reached for her bag.

"I don't fancy coffee, Harry, so you better have earl grey."

He nodded, "I do."

"Then let's go."

He didn't need a second invitation.

* * *

"Not really that soft at all," she announced after the first bite, "though I would never have put you down as a fig roll man."

He smiled as he refilled her teacup.

"And the best china. I am honoured."

He put the teapot down.

"What?" she asked.

"What do you mean, what?"

"That look. I know that look, Harry."

He frowned slightly.

"It's just… all the mugs are in the sink. I haven't really had…"

"You've had more pressing matters?" she said sadly.

"You could say that."

He leaned back on the sofa and sighed.

She gave him a moment.

"Do you have any photos?" she asked gently.

He looked up at her, wondering how she made it so much easier to be in this dark place.

"Only if you want to," she added.

He got up, pulling a slightly dated album from a cupboard nearby and returned to the sofa. As he did, she moved over to sit next to him.

"You're not allowed to laugh at the ones of me on the beach, Ruth."

"I might not be able to help myself."

He gave her a reproachful look and turned the cover.

Ruth smiled softly.

"Mickey, I presume?"

He nodded briefly and she looked away, too moved by the love in his eyes as he gazed at the bright eyed boy riding a donkey on the beach, his right arm wrapped around a yellow toy monkey.

"He buried him in the sand one day. Had the devils own job trying to find the bloody thing. Dug up half the beach."

"He looks like a happy little boy," she said turning the next page.

"He was."

More seaside pictures, more smiles and ruffled hair. Now it was Harry buried up to his neck. Then Catherine, with a satisfied Graham and Harry to one side, shouldering their spades like victorious squaddies.

"If only you could keep them that age," he said quietly.

Her hand moved across to his and she squeezed it tenderly for a moment before again turning the page.

Graham was older. An awkward looking teenager, who hadn't quite grown into his body yet. A school uniform that ill suited him, his earlier tousled unkempt hair plastered down onto his head like he was afraid it would move. On the opposite page Catherine, looking poised and comfortable in her uniform.

"She got wiser and more passionate as she grew up. She wanted to be involved in everything, fight for every lost soul, every lost cause, every cause known to man. I should have paid her more attention. Given her more time. But I gave it to Graham. For all the good it did either of us."

He turned the next page.

Christmas. Paper hats bedraggled in the snow as a snowball flies from Harry's arm towards Graham. His son's face a picture of expectation as it is about to strike. His smile bright, his eyes wide. His blond hair bursting out of the confines of the crown on his head.

She heard a sound beside her and looked up not knowing if it was a laugh or a cry. It was something between the two.

"I'm fine, Ruth."

She kept watching his expression as his head tilted to one side, looking at the photo.

"Really I am." He glanced briefly back at her with teary eyes.

She said nothing. But she too tilted her head until the corner of their foreheads touched in a tender gesture, resting one against the other.

And he knew that all that he needed, all that he wanted was here in this room sitting beside him.

Finally she moved away.

They had reached the final page.

He closed the book and it sat between them. A lifetime of memories.

"It's late…I should…"

"Right. Of course. I'll call you a taxi."

"I'm in the car."

"Oh, yes."

She began to stand.

"Are you sure you're okay, Harry?"

"I'm fine," he nodded, "in fact, I'm going straight to bed."

"No whiskey bottle?" she checked.

"No whiskey bottle."

He opened the front door and she turned back to him.

"Thank you, Ruth. For everything."

"That's what –"

"Friends are for?" he suggested.

She hesitated.

"Bye Harry."

"Bye Ruth."

And the door closed behind her.

He turned back to his empty house wanting more.

She turned to the street. That wasn't what she had intended to say.


	10. Chapter 10

**Small update for the end of the weekend.**

* * *

Harry got into bed.

And so did Ruth.

Harry slept a deep, dreamless sleep. A sleep his body needed and his battered soul craved.

Ruth slept fitfully, if at all.

She lay in her bed and stared at the ceiling, lit by the dim light from the streetlamps outside.

She thought about him.

Every time she turned over with a sigh, determined to relax, resolute that sleep should come, Harry's voice came back into her mind.

'Maybe you should listen to your own wise words.'

Frustrated she threw back the covers.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," she exclaimed and got up.

* * *

In the morning Harry sat down at his desk.

He'd already seen that she wasn't at hers but he'd seen her coat. He knew she was close.

He pulled open his top drawer.

And he laughed.

* * *

It was half an hour before his door slid open and there she stood.

"Morning, Ruth. Fig roll?"

He offered the packet.

"It didn't take you long to find them," she said laying the folder on his desk.

"If you didn't want me to find them you shouldn't have left them in my drawer."

He shook the packet lightly towards her.

"Bit early for me," she said.

"It's never too early for a fig roll."

"It's eight thirty, Harry."

He shrugged and ate one. She shook her head in mock disapproval, turning away.

"Are you alright? You look tired, Ruth."

She paused at the door.

"I suppose I am a little."

"My fault?"

She hesitated.

"In a way."

And then she slid the door closed behind her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Feel like I'm treading water slightly with this chapter so I suspect there won't be too much more.**

* * *

The day passed by with little trauma. Harry was relieved.

He needed a day off from death.

The only problem was that he had seen too little of Ruth . She had been meeting with a former asset who had new information. When she returned it was with a fresh face, ruddy from the cold chill air.

He thought how alive she looked.

Once more his door opened.

"Hi," he said softly.

"Hi," she smiled as she crossed towards him.

"Meeting go okay?"

"Fine. I'm going to go through his intel tomorrow."

"Good."

He stood up leaning against the desk.

She smiled suddenly.

"What?" he asked.

She stepped a pace towards him raising her hand close to his chest. And with a gesture filled with a tenderness and intimacy it barely deserved, she brushed a crumb from his lapel.

"Tell me you haven't eaten them all, Harry?"

"I haven't eaten them all."

Her eyes narrowed.

"I've eaten them all but one. Saved it for you."

He leaned away, desperately in need of the excuse. There was something in the close proximity of her, the scent of her, the power of her that was overwhelming, like a wave breaking over him, dragging him tumultuously down towards her.

He pulled the packet out of the drawer and sure enough there was the one remaining biscuit.

She took it with a smile.

"Thank you, that's very generous."

"Saving me from myself, hey, Ruth?"

"I'm not sure one fig roll will do it, but I can try."

For a moment he was caught in her gaze and he was drowning. He turned away to get rid of the packet.

She moved towards the door.

"Harry?"

"Mm."

"Would you like to go for a drink?"

He paused as he was about to sit.

"Yes, Ruth, I think I would."

And he reached for his coat.

She slid the door open and stepped to one side, glancing out nervously towards the grid.

He looked questioningly at her.

"Just waiting for someone to come and tell us there's a national emergency."

He laughed, straightening his collar, smiling eyes locked on hers.

They both stepped towards the door and side by side they left the grid.

* * *

Tucked in an unremarkable corner of an unremarkable pub, two people sat talking.

They talked for over two hours.

They talked until they were hungry but then they talked some more and the hunger was forgotten.

For an observer it would have been difficult to guess of what they were talking. Of serious matters, of frivolous matters, of matters of national importance. Perhaps all.

A barman collected their empty glasses and silently moved on.

"Excuse me…" the woman called him back.

"Could we could get a bowl of chips?"

"No problem."

"Chips?" queried Harry. "And you criticised my diet."

"A girl can't live by fig rolls alone," she smiled, "besides I'm starving."

"There's a good restaurant round the corner."

"I'm happy here", she said sitting back, "aren't you?"

"Yes, Ruth. I'm very happy here."

He was in danger again and so he hurriedly got up with an offer to refresh their drinks.

She watched him as he crossed to the packed bar.

And she decided that she loved his walk.

There was something totally Harry in his walk. Something strong and decisive. And comfortingly familiar. Something Harry.

It was only the waiter that disturbed her from her reverie.

A few moments later Harry sat back down.

"Thought you might have moved on to whiskey by now?" she teased.

"No. The beer's good and I need to keep my senses about me."

"Why? Do you have to be somewhere else?" she queried, heart suddenly a little heavier.

"No, I just know what you're like, Ruth. Your arguments will be too good for me and I'll never win the –"

"Chips." Announced the waiter.

He hesitated, wondering where to place them.

"They're to share," Ruth declared.

The bowl was laid in the middle of the table along with a small ramekin of tomato sauce and one of mayonnaise.

"Mayonnaise!?" questioned Harry, with an expression of distaste.

The waiter looked slightly puzzled as he glanced at Ruth.

"Yes, sir, your wife asked for it."


	12. Chapter 12

Harry looked at Ruth. Ruth looked at the chips.

Ruth looked up from the chips. Harry looked down at the mayonnaise.

The conversation that had flowed seamlessly for two hours had dried and withered with a blast of embarrassment from a simple misunderstanding.

Both suddenly reached for a chip and their fingers collided.

"Sorry," murmured Ruth.

"Sorry," muttered Harry.

"He must have just assumed…" she tailed off painfully, dangling a chip over the mayonnaise.

"He must," echoed Harry, contemplating the ketchup, "…probably because you were doing all the talking!"

Her head shot up.

He was smiling.

Her brow narrowed to a frown but her eyes gave her away. With mock indignation she pulled the bowl of chips away from him.

And in a moment the tension was gone.

* * *

"Can I give you a lift back home?" he asked, as they emerged from the pub.

"It's okay, I'll get the bus."

"It's raining, Ruth."

"What difference does that make?"

He had no idea.

"It'll be… busier?" he offered unconvincingly.

"What, at this time?"

She was playing him and he knew it.

"At any time, Ruth."

"Have you ever been on a bus, Harry?"

"Once…" he said softly, "…just the once."

And they walked on silently down the road and in their hands both felt the burn of shared memory.


	13. Chapter 13

Ruth blessed the London transport system.

Harry blessed the London transport system.

After 15 minutes of standing in the rain with no scheduled bus arriving she conceded to Harry and got in the car.

On the street in front of her house the storm hammered against the windscreen. The two of them sat within, cocooned from the outside world.

For a moment all they could hear was the rain.

"Coffee?" she said.

"We're going to get wet," he warned.

"We're already wet, Harry. It's all a matter of degrees."

"Then our degree of wetness is about to increase tenfold."

"So…" she said, "Run!"

And with that she hurtled out of the car and scurried towards the door.

* * *

Harry peeled off his jacket, the front of his blue shirt a dark patch of wetness against the rest.

"Here," she said throwing him a towel from the top of the stairs.

She disappeared again as he did his best to rub himself dry.

A couple of minutes later she descended the stairs wearing a baggy jumper and a pair of leggings. As she reached the bottom step she began to laugh.

He looked just as wet.

"I'd offer you something but I'm not sure I've got anything in your size," she smiled.

"No, and I don't think any of your skirts are quite me."

She laughed once more and the room felt warmer for it.

She held out her hand to him and for a brief moment he nearly took it but then he realised she was reaching for his jacket. She placed it on a hanger, hooking it over the radiator.

"You know you told me to live a little, Ruth?" he called after her as she moved into the kitchen. "You didn't mention that that included catching pneumonia for the sake of a fresh pot of coffee?"

Her head popped back through the doorway.

"Instant," she said grimacing, "And no fig rolls."

He smiled unconvincingly, looking down at his soaking shirt.

"Is it still worth it?" she asked.

He looked up at her.

"Yes, Ruth, it's still worth it."

* * *

"Well, you've gone a slightly lighter shade of blue," she commented, looking at the large patch of damp material at his chest.

They were sitting by the fire, she on the floor drying her hair before it, he on a chair pulled nearby.

"That's possibly because some people are hogging all the heat, Ruth."

She sighed in mock exasperation yet shuffled over making space.

"Well, get closer then," she chided.

That was what he wanted.

In fact that was all that he wanted.

Outwardly grumbling that he was too old for sitting on the floor, he promptly sat on the floor.

Beside her.

He looked into the fire chest leant forward towards it, pulling at one side of his collar, using the opportunity to tilt his head to surreptitiously watch her.

She stretched out her hair towards the heat, her face glowing with colour, her eyes alight with the flames, her fingers weaving and splaying the strands.

For a long while he soaked in the sight.

"I think that side of your collar's probably dry by now, Harry."

Caught, he turned his head away from her.

She smiled looking at the back of his neck, wondering how his left ear wasn't burnt he had been watching her for so long.

Her eyes flicked across his shoulders.

She watched his ribs rise and fall.

She watched the way the material fell across the curve of his back.

She watched her hand levitate towards him, her fingers reaching out, stretching, until they touched the softness of his shirt, felt the heat of his back beneath it and suddenly sensed the catch of his breath as she did so.

"This is dry," she announced quickly, remembering herself and withdrawing her hand.

"That's good," said Harry slowly turning towards her, "though that bit never actually got wet."

And as they sat facing one another the world seemed a very small, very cosy, very safe place to be and their place in it, a very simple one.


	14. Chapter 14

**Teeny chapter as may not be able to update for a day or so - but something to keep you going!**

* * *

There was something surreal about the scene.

Something surreal about being here, in this place, at this moment.

Something otherworldly and serene.

And she had never looked so natural and beautiful to him, sat there with no make up and damp hair.

And she had never been so aware of his unbuttoned shirt and the wet cotton and the sheer sexual presence of him.

She began to fiddle with her hair again, feeling rather hot and flustered. The back was still damp and so she reversed around towards the fire attempting to dry it.

"Lean back," he said quietly.

She looked at him quizzically.

"Lean back. You're not going to dry it like that."

She did as he asked, propping herself on her arms, the back of her head nearer now to the fire.

He shuffled closer beside her, his hands reaching out and copying her earlier gestures, splaying strands of her hair between his fingers.

Gently. Delicately. Tenderly.

Neither spoke.

With just the sound of the rain and the heat of the fire.


	15. Chapter 15

**Long day. Hopefully this is okay. Don't know yet if there's more to come.**

* * *

He didn't want to let go.

Her hair was long since dry but nonetheless he let it run through his fingers, over and over again,

He was lost in the simplicity of it.

And yet he knew he had to pull himself back.

Back to a world where she wanted no more than friendship. Friendship she had given him when he was most in need and yet probably least deserving.

And as much as he desired her now, that was something he couldn't bear to lose.

With a supreme effort he let the hair slip away.

"All dry," he breathed.

Finally he sat back, able to see the serene expression on her face, head tilted, eyes closed.

And though there had been a thousand times he had thought about it, at this moment, he had never wanted to kiss her more.

She opened her eyes and looked at him questioningly. Why had he stopped? Why had the gentle, calming, wonderful rhythm of his hands stopped?

"It's dry," he repeated.

"Oh."

She sat up flexing her arms that had been locked in the same position for so long.

"I think I better go, Ruth."

"Really?" she looked truly surprised by the suggestion and the timing of it.

"Well …you know," he tailed off.

He didn't actually know. He didn't actually have an answer.

"It's still pouring, Harry."

He cocked his head listening to the rain pelting against the windows.

"So it is."

"Then stay," she said as though it was the most logical thing in the world.

""You're right," he nodded, "…it'll stop soon."

But that wasn't what she meant.

"And what if it doesn't?" she asked quietly.

"Then I'll get wet again," he smiled.

She began to despair if he would ever pick up on the right signal at the right time.

"Are you so very keen to leave a dry house and a warm fire, Harry?"

It was in truth the last thing he wanted but at the same time he couldn't stay, as able and practiced as his self restraint was.

"No," he sighed, "I'm not at all keen, Ruth."

"Then don't go."

He looked at her, a thousand thoughts hidden behind his eyes.

But they weren't hidden from her.

She slowly reached out, her hand straying across the top of his arm, sliding to his shoulder and finding his collar.

"Still damp," she said, raising her eyebrows.

Her other hand repeated the movement, her fingers curling around the opposite side of his collar.

"And here."

Then both hands began to slip behind his neck, skimming his collar line, as she persuaded him closer and closer.

Her breath whispering across his face.

"And here."

She hovered before him.

So close all he had to do was reach out.

His lips a heartbeat away from temptation and salvation.

Her fingers straying from his collar, delicately brushing his skin as they moved up and into his hair.

Skimming. Stroking. Suggesting.

"Ruth...? he hesitated.

"How many more invitations do you need Harry," she whispered.


	16. Chapter 16

His hands slid to her arms, his breathing heavy and laboured, his gaze unblinking.

And then he pulled them away.

Pulled her away.

He said nothing, barely looking at her.

She was lost, left hanging somewhere between surprise and rejection.

"This isn't what you want, Ruth."

He began to get up.

"Not what I want?" she repeated slowly.

"I should go."

And he himself wondered why he was going, why he had refused the invitation. But he knew it had been the moment, being caught in the moment and that without these circumstances she would regret it. Would remember that she wanted no more than friendship.

And he needed her too much for that.

He took his jacket from the hanger and began to walk towards the door.

Ruth still sat on the floor. She felt embarrassed, spurned and confused. No damn it, she felt angry.

"And what do you want, Harry?" she said, tone hard.

He paused but did not turn back to her.

"You're keen enough to tell me what I don't want, when you evidently have no idea. So tell me what is it that you want?"

Still his back remained to her.

"You know what I want, Ruth," his voice was quiet and restrained.

Slowly he turned round to face her.

"But I don't want to lose this."

"This…?"

He didn't answer but turned to go once more, opening the door.

"At least have the courtesy to ask me, Harry. Ask me what it is I want."

Hand still resting on the door, he reluctantly looked towards her.

But he never got the chance to ask.

"To stop assuming you know what I want, when you're clearly clueless," she began. "To open your eyes and see what's in front of you and just for once for you to get it right! This was right. This…" she waved her hand around the room, towards the fire, "…this, was right. Why can't you see that? Why can't you see what's in front of you? How can you not know what I want?!"

She glared at him, frustration boiling over and then she fell silent.

He stared at her.

"You said we could never be more together."

"Yes well, I've said a lot of things. It doesn't mean you have to listen to them."

She sat down, suddenly wearied by the whole thing.

The storm outside swelled and the rain pounded unfeasibly heavier still.

Inside all was still.

"There's an umbrella in the hall," she said her eyes lost in the fire.

Behind her she heard the door close.


	17. Chapter 17

She released the pent up breath that seemed trapped within her chest.

She had no idea where they went from this.

This life of misunderstanding.

This parallel universe where both were destined to repel each other.

They were in no man's land.

And the greatest irony was that he had acted upon the stupid thing she had told him and thus become deaf to the truth.

The truth she had only accepted within the last few days.

The truth that had come from her own advice.

For now she knew she should and could learn to live a little.

And the only one she had any desire to live a little with, was him.

She rubbed her eyes for a moment and then turned from the fire, picking up their two mugs and crossing through into the kitchen.

She ran the hot water and washed them.

One mug from now on, she thought. Nothing new there then. Clenching her teeth and refusing to let herself cry, she resolutely turned to find the tea towel.

Standing in the kitchen doorway watching her was Harry.

She started with surprise.

His face still and unreadable, he said nothing.

She said nothing. She had no idea what to say.

He moved towards her, his eyes never leaving her, fixed and unblinking.

And now he was standing before her.

Silent and still and unnervingly close.

"Is this what you want, Ruth?"

With the whispered velvety words still hanging in the air between them, his head dipped forward and his lips took hers.


	18. Chapter 18

**Think we have reached the end. Possibly an epilogue to come, who knows? **

* * *

This time there was no boat waiting for her.

This time there was nowhere to go and no one to keep them apart…only themselves.

They were their own rhythm section as their hearts pounded together. Joined at the lips by a kiss forged from the desire and restraint of so many years.

And when those lips finally parted one from the other, their eyes did not.

For a long silent moment they stared.

Each desperately hoping the other had wanted, enjoyed, and most importantly not regretted that kiss.

Tentatively it was Ruth who dared to break the silence first.

"How did we make that so difficult?"

A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.

"The same way we make every thing so difficult. By listening to each other and hearing something different. By saying one thing and meaning another."

"It's so exhausting getting it wrong, Harry," she sighed.

He nodded.

"Especially when getting it right feels so good," he ventured a small smile.

"So tell me something I can't misunderstand," she said.

"Even if you don't want to hear it?"

"Whatever it is," she nodded, "Just tell me. Tell me what you want."

He took a deep breath, his gaze was penetrating, his eyes unblinking.

"I want a life with you, Ruth. I want to live a little... with you. Not as a friend. Not just a friend."

Her face was still, eyes wide never leaving his.

"I want everything, Ruth."

He sought a response but none came.

"Do you understand that?" he asked.

She nodded her head.

His pupils darted across her face, eager for an answer, a clue, a sign for him to cling to.

"I've always given you mixed messages, haven't I?" she said.

"You could say that."

For the first time her eyes parted from his, dropping to his chest, seeking the right words from somewhere.

"It was never deliberate. I think in truth I've never really known what I wanted, never dared to admit what I've wanted to myself, let alone you."

She finally found the words. The words that could not be mistaken.

"This time no mixed messages, Harry."

Her eyes refound his.

"I want you. With no reservations. I want to be with you before we lose ourselves again."

And for a moment he wondered if his heart in stopping, would ever restart.

"Are you sure you'll still say this tomorrow?" he asked tentatively.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and the day after tomorrow," she smiled.

"That only takes us to the end of the week, Ruth."

She laughed a small laugh and took his hands in hers.

"For us that would prove an eternity."

He gazed at her, his face open, his emotions laid bare.

"I don't want to go home tonight," he whispered.

She smiled.

"I told you before, Harry, but you weren't listening. Stay.

Stay until the rain stops and the sun rises. Until the snow falls and the flowers bloom. Stay Harry. With me."


	19. Epilogue

**Thanks again for the reviews. Here is a fluffy epilogue to end - hope you enjoy.**

* * *

He lay, eyes open and he watched.

There was no one in his life apart from Catherine, whom he saw only on the few occasions when she was in the country.

All he truly had lay here, on this pillow beside him.

His past, his present and now his future.

She was them all.

Of the many times he had imagined making love to her none had come close to the overwhelming emotion and desire he had felt last night. And for all his sense of disbelief that he was here, lying in her bed, he could not prevent himself from smiling at the fact that he had finally possessed her.

Her eyes opened.

"Am I dreaming?" she asked sleepily.

He shook his head.

"I think I am," she smiled.

"Marry me Ruth."

She blinked.

"You see I am dreaming, Harry. If this was reality you'd be asking me that somewhere totally inappropriate."

"Ok you are dreaming," he declared, "…So, in your dream what would your answer be?"

"I'll tell you when I wake up."

And with that she turned onto her side away from him.

"Ruth!"

"Sshhh, I'm asleep."

"Oh, no you're not."

A hand reached around her waist and forcefully pulled her onto her back.

She raised a hand in protest but he pinned it above her head.

"Without reservation you said…" he protested, "Without reservation. 'Until the snows come and the flowers bloom'."

"Oh, you were listening."

"Answer me, Ruth."

"Have you no patience?"

His face betrayed his outrage at the suggestion.

"Yes, well okay you've probably proved that's something you do have plenty of," she agreed.

"Marry me Ruth?"

"Shouldn't we be getting to work?"

He growled, exasperated.

"Fine, I'll marry you on Thursday," she said.

His face bypassed exultation and relief and moved straight on to confusion.

"Which Thursday?"

"This one."

"That's tomorrow!"

"Okay," she said, "If you can't wait till then, then today will do."

"Today?!"

"Problem?" she asked, eyes gleaming.

He leant back a little.

"Who are you and what have you done with Ruth Evershed?"

She smiled.

"I've decided she would be considerably happier if she changed her name," she answered, "Preferably on Thursday."

"But you haven't even thought about it."

"I've thought about it for six years, Harry. Now are you going to let me get up or take advantage of the fact I'm pinned to the bed?"

He blinked, still trying to comprehend what appeared to be a 'yes'.

"I thought you said we should be on our way to work, Ruth?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'll be late if you will."


End file.
